


PRECIPICE

by lionofstone



Category: Original Work
Genre: Angels, Demons, Gen, Ghosthunting, Supernatural - Freeform, Supernatural Creatures, angels & demons who are friends & love each other, probably ineffective plot twists
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-30
Updated: 2018-06-30
Packaged: 2019-05-31 10:27:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,718
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15117458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lionofstone/pseuds/lionofstone
Summary: “Why are you so afraid of demons?” her friend asks.She wants to say ‘Because I’m one wrong move away from becoming one’, but she doesn’t. She thinks it would be giving away too much.All Ophelia wants is to get her ghosthunting show up and running, even if it means facing down her worst fear: demons. All Ronna wants, apparently, is to simultaneously be the worlds bestandworst best friend.





	PRECIPICE

“Why are you so afraid of demons?” Ronna asks.

She wants to say ‘Because I’m one wrong move away from becoming one’, but she doesn’t. She thinks it would be giving away too much.

 

* * *

 

It started as a joke. Or, well, no, not a joke. Something un-serious, though. Something that wasn’t really supposed to mean anything. When Ophelia suggested a ghost hunting show to her superiors, laughing about demons and monsters and ghouls, she’d mostly thought of it as a one-off, something that they’d think about before dismissing and assigning her to something else.

She didn’t expect it to be green-lit, that’s for sure. She didn’t expect to be scrambling around the office for a co-host, asking anyone who’d listen for more than ten seconds if they’d be interested.

The thing is, before getting the approval, she’s thought it might be fun, and after getting the approval, she was surprised at how much she actually wanted to do it. So, naturally, she was met with ‘no’ after ‘no’ after ‘no’ from her colleagues, none of them keen to camp out in abandoned places waiting for the supernatural. She can’t blame them, really.

But Ronna…

“Okay,” Ronna says, picking at the dirt under her short nails and shrugging. “But I should probably warn you, I don’t believe in ghosts.”

Ronna has olive skin, a smattering of freckles and blush over the bridge of her button nose, shoulder-length auburn hair in messy braids. She’s got extra sharp canines that seem even sharper when she smiles, which she does often and easily, throwing her head back and talking with her hands. There’s something deep and dark and dangerous about the brown of her eyes, and there’s a reason that Ophelia hasn’t spent much time with her before.

But she’s halfway to desperate at this point, and Ronna had said ‘okay’ without hesitating. “That’s okay,” Ophelia replies, “it’ll make for good television.”

 

* * *

 

And it does.

The first episode they do, Ophelia talks excitedly about axe murders and cemeteries, spins stories of ghostly apparitions and voices, and Ronna shakes her head at the camera, rolling her eyes with an expression they can pass off as fond, for the viewers. They aren’t friends, not exactly, not yet, but their humour bounces well enough off of each other and they both like pancakes better than hash browns after a hunt.

Ronna shouts at the air in every place that they go, shouting for ghosts and spirits and ghouls and demons to come, to strike her where she stands, to whisper in Ophelia’s ears, to speak to them. Ronna tells them to fight, that she’s ready and waiting and willing. She challenges them to property and tells them that if they don’t speak she will.

“Shut up,” Ophelia says, but she can’t entirely hide the laugh bubbling in her throat. “Shut up, you’re going to get us killed.”

“Don’t worry,” Ronna says, cuffing her on the back of the neck and grinning. “Nothing’s gonna getcha.”

Ophelia has believed in ghosts her whole life, raised in a family that told her story after story and goaded her until they got her to scream. She takes the lead on their investigations, setting the tone with hoarsely whispered histories, breaking only to laugh with Ronna about the more ridiculous aspects.

“So— sorry, so, you’re saying that it was _aliens_? I thought this was about the supernatural, not extraterrestrials.”

Ophelia shrugs, a feat considering the shaking of her shoulders. “It’s about the unnatural,” she says, “that includes aliens.”

“You think ghosts are _unnatural_?”Ronna demands. “Do you just think that everything that’s non-human is _unnatural_? That’s specist. Speciesist?”

Ophelia can’t come up with a comeback, just barks out a laugh.

Somewhere along the line (between the first and seventh episode, only a handful of weeks spent squished together), they stop having to fake the fond looks and teasing laughter. Ophelia isn’t sure when that shift happened, but she’s not complaining. Ronna is immeasurably cool, and the show wouldn’t be what it is, what it’s starting to be, without her.

People like their show; they like seeing Ophelia scream at small noises and shadows and they like seeing Ronna tip her head back in free laughter that seems cruel but isn’t. The first season ends with a demon house, something ancient and possessed and—  
  
“Decrepit,” Ronna remarks, looking up at the house with a wide smirk and adjusting her baby pink baseball cap. “That’s the word for it.”

Ophelia shudders. “You picked it,” she says, and if her voice is petulant and accusatory, then they can edit it out.

“Yeah, I did!” Ronna grins, elbowing Ophelia playfully in the arm. Ophelia offers a shaky smile. “Hey, what’s wrong?”

“I hate demons,” she mutters. “I hate them. I don’t mess with demons.”

Ronna hums, looking appraisingly at Ophelia, who shies away from the look, lifting her shoulders and burying her chin in the rolled neck of her sweatshirt. “You look like a turtle,” Ronna remarks, matter-of-fact, and Ophelia laughs a little, feeling some of the tension bleed out of her.

“Shut up,” she says without malice. “Let’s go hunt a demon.”

 

* * *

 

And they do.

There’s lots of footage of creepy hallways, cracked windows, chipped paint. Ronna, walking about a set of creaky stairs. Ophelia, setting up cameras and flashlights and audio recorders.

They don’t see any demons, but Ophelia is jumpy anyway. Ronna unties and reties her braids, combing her fingers through her hair and grinning wickedly whenever Ophelia startles.

Afterwards, they go to grab a drink to cool down, and Ronna throws her arm around Ophelia’s shoulders, standing on tip-toe and half-bouncing along to make it work with the height difference. “You did good, buddy,” she says, and Ophelia shakes her head.

“There was something in that house,” she insists, “something that wasn’t human.”

“Yeah,” Ronna agrees, deadpan, “that was me.”

It’s enough— that dry wit, that calm playfulness— and Ophelia laughs, properly laughs, bringing her hand up to cover her mouth, and it causes her slant eyes to crinkle. Ronna, supernatural. Ronna, anything other than a good, incredible _human_ friend.

The thing is, Ophelia has been on earth for a long time. Twenty-three years, in fact, and she’s dedicated most of that time to studying the unnatural; the ghosts, the ghouls, the aliens, and the cryptids. She’s got the _sight,_ or whatever. She’s pretty sure she’d know if her best friend was anything other than human.

She’s not sure when that happened; that Ronna became her best friend. She remembers avoiding her, six months ago; sliding casually out of rooms when Ronna entered them, standing eight feet away during staff meetings, refusing eye contact. Something about Ronna had seemed off, dangerous, and Ophelia had listened to her gut and kept her distance.

But now? Watching Ronna deck herself out in gear that does things she doesn’t believe in, wearing baseball caps at night, and shooting Ophelia those smiles with the too-sharp canines— she still seems dangerous, and off, but Ophelia doesn’t mind it, now. It’s still there, like a black spot in her peripherals, but she’s becoming less and less aware of it as time passes.

They get drinks, and they go back to the hotel, and Ophelia starts coming up with ideas for the next season.

They don’t just hunt ghosts. Sometimes, they get together with other mutual friends and play baseball (Ronna’s favourite) or watch comedy films (Ophelia’s preferred) or just hang out and eat food.

The show is doing really well, so they spend a few days designing merchandise for it. Ophelia’s favourite is an oversized white t-shirt with ‘ghost girls’ (an affectionate fan-given nickname) written over the heart. Ronna puts gooey bubble letters spelling ‘nothing’s gonna getcha’ on a baseball cap.

“This is all I’m wearing next season,” she enthuses when they get the merchandise in the office, putting on a baby blue baseball cap right then and there.

 

* * *

 

And it is.

Ronna appears on the set of the first episode of the second season wearing one of their t-shirts (a tank top with Ophelia’s doodle of a ghost on the front) and the baseball cap and positions a water bottle with the show’s logo in strategic view of the camera. Ophelia, in solidarity, swaps her normal black sweatshirt for the dark purple one they’d designed together.

When Ronna sees it, she gives Ophelia one of those too-sharp smiles, and Ophelia can’t resist the grin back.

“New rule,” Ophelia says, once the camera starts rolling. “Ronna isn’t allowed to choose the locations anymore.”

“What? Why?!” Ronna demands, and Ophelia is glad that they shoot these largely unscripted because the look on her face— mostly the scrunched nose and furrowed brows— is priceless.

“Because,” Ophelia says pointedly, “you choose four— _four!_ — demonic areas. I said last time, I don’t mess with demons, and this is what you do to me?”

Ronna throws her head back and laughs, and doesn’t even attempt to collect herself before she says, “This season is gonna be wild, guys.”

She wears their merchandise while they’re on location, too, pulling the baseball caps— which she apparently owns in every available colour— down low enough on her face to touch the top arch of her eyebrow. She pokes her tongue out at Ophelia playfully when she laughs and gets her payback when Ophelia screams at a shadow.

They try some new techniques— lighting candles and asking the spirits to blow them out, moving objects and asking them to be put back— and when nothing specifically happens for the third episode in a row, Ronna offers a consolidary smile.

“Wow,” she says, finishing retying her braid. “Nothing happened. Come on ghosts! Come on!”

“Don’t,” Ophelia says, smiling, “you’re just going to piss them off. Maybe they’re tired.”

“Do ghosts get tired? Do ghosts _sleep_?”

“Well,” Ophelia says, trying to sound reasonable about it, “If they’re made of energy like I believe, then presumably that energy could burn out sometimes? And the ghosts would need to recharge?” 

“Like a battery?” Ronna smirks. “Let’s just get the Energiser bunny in here, get these bad boys ready to play again!”

The idea of a bunch of ghosts being shocked into action by a giant pink bunny makes Ophelia laugh again, and as they leave, they get a friendly shot of Ronna elbowing Ophelia as they stumble, giggling, out of the house.

“Some viewers suggested that we use a spirit box,” Ophelia says in the intro to the next episode. “Do you know what that is?”

Ronna shakes her head and rests her chin on her hand, looking expectantly at Ophelia. She’s got a lollypop in her mouth, which Ophelia had argued with tonally inconsistent with the show, but Ronna had pouted and said that it was _bat-shaped_ and that their viewers would appreciate the falsely spooky nature of it. Ophelia rolls her eyes at the exaggerated expression of curiosity but launches into an explanation anyway.

“It’s basically a radio, but it shifts between channels at an incredible speed, meaning that any words you hear are very unlikely to be radio interference,” she smiles excitedly at the camera. “So in theory, the supernatural could communicate through it. Like, any words we hear will be coming from something else.”

Ronna nods, considering. “Anything supernatural? Even demons?”

“Sure,” Ophelia says, suddenly nervous. “But I don’t plan to use to talk to any demons. I told you, I don’t mess with demons.”

“Oh,” Ronna says, smirking. “Don’t you? I think you will, eventually.”

 

* * *

  
  
And she does.

It takes until the third season, but they end up on some haunted bridge in the middle of nowhere trying to get some demon to talk to them through the spirit box. Ophelia’s been on edge since the drive up, barely able to get through her explanations of the history and the lore without shaking.

“It’s a nice view,” Ronna says, leaning against the railing of the bridge and looking out over the river. “If I was a demon, I wouldn’t say no to haunting a place like this.”

“What,” Ophelia snorts, “you think Lucifer gives you a choice of where to haunt?”

Ronna shoots her a funny, unreadable look, then shrugs. “Maybe. I’m not really on a first-name basis with the devil though. I can’t exactly call him up.”

Ophelia curses internally, then tries to turn it all into a joke. “Well, I do,” she says, “I have him on speed dial.“

“You’re terrified of demons but you’ve got Satan on speed dial?” Ronna raises her eyebrows.

It’ll make for a clever back and forth in the episode, so Ophelia pretends that her heart isn’t hammering when she replies, “Yep. I knew him. He put a healthy fear of the demonic into me.”

Ronna shakes her head like she can’t quite believe how ridiculous Ophelia is, and they start the shoot with their usual tricks and banter. By the time they decide to set up the spirit box, Ophelia had almost forgotten that was the plan. Her hands shake as she pulls it out of its case.

It makes an awful sound when she turns it on. She and Ronna both flinch.

After several long minutes of nothing, the machine finally catches something that sounds like a voice, that sounds like words, and Ophelia leans forward to hear better, her heart in her throat, rubbing her sweaty palms on her jeans.

_skrtch— go. awa— skrtch— Rahab—_

There’s a tense silence that Ophelia doesn’t know how to break, listening to the crackling sound of the spirit box. She hopes for more and dreads hearing more in equal measure.

Ronna, finally, lets out a startled laugh, throwing her head back, showing of too-sharp canines that seem to glisten in the dim light. “What? _Go rehab?_ Was this demon an alchy?”

Ophelia laughs too, nervous and jittery, relieved at the interpretation. She’d thought she heard _Rahab_ , but she likes this explanation much better. Ronna can make a joke out of anything, and Ophelia actually appreciates it, this time. It settles her nerves a little.

It becomes their most popular episode, and viewers ask for more of the spirit box, more of Ophelia’s humour re: demons.

“Hell no,” Ophelia says, shaking her head emphatically. They’re on a panel at a convention, answering fan questions. “Nope, nope, nope. I already did four demon locations in season two and two last season. I’m putting a pin on demon locations. Season four is all ghosts, baby.”

It earns her a laugh from the crowd, and they turn to interrogate Ronna about her lack of belief.

“I’ve never seen a demon,” Ronna says, shrugging. “I’ll believe in them when I do.”

“Demons are evil incarnate,” Ophelia pipes up. “I hope we never see one.”

Ronna looks at her searchingly, then nods slowly, like she agrees. Ophelia decides not to swell on the strange look in Ronna’s eyes.

A fan asks, “If you believe in demons, do you also believe in, like, angels?”

Ophelia freezes, for a half-second, but it’s long enough that Ronna notices, and shoots her a concerned look, hidden from audience view by her baseball cap. Ophelia shakes herself, and grins at the fan.

“Sure,” she says, “but they’ll be even harder to get proof of. They don’t haunt bridges. I don’t even think they’re on earth all that often. But anyway, angels are benevolent and more powerful than demons.”

“Do you buy into the idea that demons are just fallen angels?” the fan continues, and Ophelia feels her heart rate pick up.

She pauses to grab a drink of water and collect herself. “I think fallen angels are something else. A purgatory, if you will, between angel and demon. Like they’re on a precipice.”

Ronna hums thoughtfully. “So you think fallen angels are at risk?”

Ophelia manages not to flinch at the implication. “I think they’re walking a line. And they can walk it well.” She laughs, throwing her hands up. “But what do I know? I film myself screaming for a living!”

“Well, technically, I film you screaming for a living.”

“We film each other, how’s that?”

 

* * *

  
  
And they do.

The fourth season, as promised, is all ghosts, and Ophelia is glad. She doesn’t need any more reminders of demons and demonic activity. When Ronna jokingly suggests that a ghost they’re hunting might be a demon, after all, Ophelia manages to crack a call back joke about calling Lucifer without her voice shaking, and she’ll call that a win.

They take a break after the fourth season because Ronna has some sort of family emergency that means she has to go back home. Ophelia offers to drive her wherever she needs to go, but Ronna just smiles, cups Ophelia’s cheeks briefly, and says, “I’m not sure that you can,” whatever that means.

It’s quiet without Ronna around, and Ophelia doesn’t like it. She buries herself in her work, designing merchandise and planning out new locations. She texts Ronna occasionally, not really expecting any sort of reply, and is pleasantly surprised when her friend responds with pictures or emojis or sometimes even a quick paragraph about how she’s doing.

When Ronna returns, Ophelia has the entire season mapped out and shows it excited to the co-host. But Ronna wears a familiar wicked grin and says, “Nope.”

“What?” Ophelia falters.

“Nope,” Ronna says again, cheerfully, and removes one of the locations from the whiteboard to replace it with something else. “We didn’t do any demons last season, so we’re going to do one this time. Just one.”

Ophelia says, intelligently, “Uh.”

Ronna pauses in her writing and turns to Ophelia, leaning against the board. There’s a silence that stretches, deadening, over the room. Ophelia shifts awkwardly, tugging at the sleeves of her sweatshirt.

“Why are you so afraid of demons?” Ronna asks.

She wants to say ‘Because I’m one wrong move away from becoming one’, but she doesn’t. She thinks it would be giving away too much.

Instead, she forces a smile and shoves her hands into her pockets. “I told you, on the bridge. Lucifer put a healthy fear of the demonic into me.”

The thing is, she’s not lying.

Ronna hums, turns back to the whiteboard, and finishes writing her chosen location up on the board. Ophelia has just let herself relax from the dropped conversation when Ronna turns back around and rests a hand on Ophelia’s shoulder.

“You can tell me, you know,” Ronna says, “whatever the truth is. I won’t laugh.”

 

* * *

  
  
And she won’t.

Ophelia knows she won’t. If she turned to Ronna one day and spilt her guts, told her everything, Ronna wouldn’t laugh.

She’d leave.

And somewhere along the line, that became unthinkable. They feel inseparable now and Ophelia likes that. She likes having a best friend.

The thing is, Ophelia has been on earth for a long time. Twenty-three years, in fact. She’s started as an infant, like anyone, but unlike most, she had recollections of the time before that. She remembered a name that wasn’t Ophelia, a place that wasn’t made of oxygen and dirt.

But she doesn’t remember ever having a best friend. That’s what Ronna is, and Ophelia is terrified that if she turned around to her and said, _by the way, I’m a fallen angel_ , the reaction wouldn’t be the unwavering acceptance she’s grown used to Ronna showing.

“I don’t like salted popcorn,” she says a few days later, kicking her feet as they wait to record the opening for the next episode. “I think it’s gross and it feels funny on my tongue. I like sweet popcorn better.”

Ronna shakes her head but doesn’t protest. “I think you’re wrong, but that’s cool, I guess.”

That’s what she’s used to. She likes sweet popcorn, and Ronna doesn’t, and that’s okay. She believes in ghosts, and Ronna doesn’t, and that’s okay. She’s a fallen angel, and Ronna’s not, and that’s… something.

‘Okay’ doesn’t seem likely, though.

She remembers her family telling her ghost stories, and screaming because it was so sad that humans could get stuck like that. She remembers Lucifer twisting Lilit into a demon, and screaming because it was so unnatural. She remembers Ronna smiling her too-sharp smile at her, and screaming because it was a sure-fire way to make her laugh.

It’s not until a few days later that she remembers she used to like salted popcorn fine.

They go to see a movie, and Ronna specifically gets sweet popcorn that feels like mush in Ophelia’s mouth as she chews it. She can’t even focus on the screen, too wrapped up in trying to recall the first time she didn’t like it. Her heart is racing, and she realises she has no idea.

When Ronna asks her what she thought of the movie, she offers some sort of non-committal response that seems to appease her.

But Ophelia’s heart pounds aggressively hard for three hours, and when she gets home, she sinks down to the floor and breathes hard. She feels dizzy. There’s a glaring truth here that she doesn’t want to confront, and her brain short-circuits every time she tries.

She decides to leave it alone, and never think of it again.

 

* * *

  
  
And she doesn’t.

Or at least, she doesn’t for a long time. A long time is a relative thing, in a life that’s, more or less, human. It’s several months before she thinks of it again. She’s successfully pushed it to the back of her mind to be categorically forgotten and when it gets yanked back to the forefront of her thoughts, it’s entirely unintentional.

They’re on the one and only demon hunt of season five, an episode that’s had fans buzzing with anticipation and Ophelia shaking from it. She’s avoided the demonic, she’s avoided anything relating to it, for nearly a year and she’s jumpy about seeing it again.

“Here,” Ronna says, and hands her a bottle of water. “I got it blessed for you.”

“You got me holy water?” Ophelia’s voice is soft and low, oddly touched. “You don’t even believe in any of this stuff…”

“But you do,” Ronna says, shrugging. “I thought it might make you feel a little bit safer. It has been a long time since we’ve done anything with demons.”

Ophelia appreciates the gesture, clutching the water bottle close to her chest as they make their way through the house. She nervously unscrews and re-screws the lid as she explains the history of the location, and when Ronna catches sight of this, she jumps in with more frequency to add her thoughts, and to tease Ophelia into laughing.

It’s when she’s laughing, after they’ve filmed the last of the explanations and are gearing up to go exploring, that she slips, and spills, and some of the water splashes onto the space between her glove and her jacket. She hisses, drops the bottle, and rubs at her exposed wrist, waiting for the burning to stop.

Burning. Holy water, burning.

She doesn’t like salted popcorn anymore.

“Ophelia?” Ronna says, her voice low and her hands outstretched like she wants to help but isn’t sure how. “Are you okay?”

It takes three things to make a pattern, that’s what Ophelia keeps telling herself in her head. So salt feels funny on her tongue, maybe she’s got some sort of reaction. So the holy water hurt her wrist, maybe she was just startled by the cold.

She tries to brush of Ronna’s concern, joking feebly about losing her protection from the demons, but her voice shakes and her heart is pounding.

It takes three things to make a pattern.

It takes _three_ things to make a pattern.

She doesn’t really process Ronna asking for a minute, asking for the camera crew to leave the room, until the door clicks shut behind them. She’s still shaking, still desperately trying to convince herself that it’s all fine. Ronna adjusts her baseball cap.

“Ophelia,” she says, and when Ophelia doesn’t reply, she says, quietly, with a certain determination, “Rahab.”

Ophelia freezes, the shaking finally subsiding, and squeezes her eyes shut. She shakes her head, back and forth, back and forth. “No,” she forces out, and Ronna helps her into a chair, and kneels down in front of her.

“It’s okay,” Ronna says, squeezing her arm. “It’s okay, Rahab.”

“It’s not,” Ophelia says— and she thinks of herself as Ophelia, although she remembers her old name, hearing it roll off of her friend's tongue. “It’s not okay— I was on a precipice, and I walked off without even realising—“

Ronna makes soothing noises and stands to lean against Ophelia’s chair, stroking her hair from her face until she’s calmed down enough to let the camera crew back in. She fumbles through the rest of the episode, and if she’s shakier and jumpier than normal, they can play it up as her being really scared. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Nothing’s gonna getcha,” Ronna says, knocking shoulders with Ophelia and grinning that too-sharp smile. “I’m gonna be right here.”

 

* * *

  
  
And she is.

Ophelia wonders how she got so lucky, to end up best friends with the one human in the world who, when faced with the supernatural, accepts it unquestioningly. Ronna says she saw Ophelia’s reaction when the spirit box said ‘Rahab’ and did her own research from there. Ronna says… Ophelia doesn’t like salted popcorn, and the holy water burned her wrist, and, “Three things make a pattern.”

Ophelia laughs, laughs until she cries, because of course. Of course, there were already three things. “You didn’t believe in demons, when we met,” she says, “you said you didn’t believe in ghosts. How are you taking this so well?”

Ronna hums, retying her braid and pulling her baseball cap back down over her eyes. “I thought it’d make for good television,” she says. “I didn’t know how good of an actress you’d be.”

Ophelia gapes. “You’ve believed in ghosts this whole time? In ghouls and cryptids and demons and everything?”

“Well, no,” Ronna grins, that same free smile adorning her face, and she taps her finger to Ophelia’s nose. “There’s only one demon I believe in.”

It makes Ophelia laugh, makes her think that maybe this isn’t such a terrible situation after all. She’s a demon, and Ronna’s not, and that’s okay.

She’s a demon, and that’s okay.

“You know,” Ophelia says, “no one really knows how much fallen angels can see of the supernatural. Angels can see it all, and demons can see other demons, sometimes ghosts, but… fallen angels are something of an enigma. We arrive as infants and live out life after life aware of everything, but I wasn’t sure how much I could see. I wanted to know.”

Ronna tipped her head to the side. “So you believed in it, but you didn’t…?”

“Oh no, I believed in it one hundred percent,” Ophelia corrects. “The show was… a way to figure out what I could actually see. A way to prove to myself that I was still angelic.”

The two of them laugh and laugh and laugh, until Ophelia finally manages to say, “I guess that backfired.”

They continue doing the show, and Ophelia gets somehow braver, sometimes joining Ronna in her taunts, sometimes starting the taunts herself. She has nothing to be scared of, anymore. She was always terrified of become this, and now she is, and it’s okay.

Until… until they actually find a demon.

It’s bigger and meaner and scarier than Ophelia had even pictured, bigger and meaner and scarier than Ophelia could ever hope to be. It’s haunting a small house in the middle of no where, and when they catch it on camera, Ophelia screams.

Ronna immediately positions herself between Ophelia and the hulking, black shape, just visible in the darkness. “Ronna—“ Ophelia says, reaching on instinct to pull her back. Ronna is human and frail and—

Made of light.

“Trust me, buddy,” Ronna says, narrowing her eyes at the demon and baring her too-sharp canines. “I’m a helluva lot scarier than you. Well,” she smirks, “I guess I come from the other place.”

She’s an actual, literal angel.

How had Ophelia missed that?!

She thinks back on it; Ronna’s knowing looks and odd smiles and her saying ‘I’m not on a first name basis with the devil.’

Something within her finally- finally- recognises her friend for who and what she really is.

The demon (the other demon, Ophelia supposes) hunkers down and growls, and Ronna, blessed fucking Ronna, growls right back, louder. There’s some sort of scuffle that Ophelia can barely keep up with, and the demon whines, pulls away, and disappears.

“Ronna…” Ophelia says, voice hoarse and she realises she’d been screaming during the whole fight.

Ronna re-adjusts her baseball cap and smiles. “I told you,” she says, cuffing Ophelia on the back of the head. “Nothing’s gonna getcha.”

 

* * *

 

And nothing does.

They carry on doing the show. Ronna still plays a convincing skeptic, and Ophelia still screams, sometimes, at shadows. They enter their sixth season closer than ever.

Ronna designs a new sweatshirt, splaying the words ‘nothing’s gonna getcha’ on the front, and Ophelia creates a new baseball cap that simply says ‘ahhhh’ in bold black letters that increase in size. They wear their own designs in the season premiere, causing Ophelia to complain about obstructed vision and Ronna to moan about overheating.

They dance around the subject of their true identities when the cameras are off. In the end, Ophelia steels her nerves and asks, “What’s your name?”

Ronna grins at her, and for the first time in a long, long time, Ophelia finds it dangerous. “You know my name.”

“Do I?”

“Your name is Ophelia, isn’t it?” Ronna says, stitching her fingers together and stretching her arms away from her chest. “That’s the name you chose.”

Ophelia purses her lips to one side, eyeing Ronna carefully. “You don’t want to tell me.”

“Why do you want to know?”

Ophelia pauses— takes a deep breath and account of her feelings.

The thing is, she’s scared of demons all over again. It’s just that this time, it’s on someone else’s behalf. She’s been on that precipice, she’s walked that line and slipped; Ronna might not be a fallen angel (without her name, it’s almost impossible to know— newly fallen angels keep a rather ‘pure’ looking form), but the more time she spends on earth, the more time she spends with Ophelia…

The more time Ronna spends in the company of a demon, the easier it will be to fall. The easier it will be for her to become a demon too.

“I’m worried for you,” she says, and Ronna laughs. “No, seriously, I’m worried for you. I’m scared for you. I don’t want you to… I don’t want you to end like me.”

“If end up half as amazing as you are, I’ll be happy,” Ronna replies, casual, blasé.

“That’s what I’m talking about!” Ophelia says, half shouting. “I— I walked off a precipice without even realising! I fell, and I stuck around, and I went from bad to worse without any intention. If you stick around—“

“Do you want me to go?” Ronna asks quietly. “Is that what this is?”

“No!”

“Then what is it?”

“You’re an angel,” Ophelia says, and her voice is full of awe and terror. “You’re everything that’s good in the universe bottled up. That’s… precious. You can’t risk losing that.”

“I’m not.”

“Don’t— don’t you think that maintaining a friendship with a demon puts you at risk?” Ophelia says, somewhat desperately. “I don’t want you to be at risk. A demon— a demon can’t go back. But you could.”

Ronna smiles, a softer expression that doesn’t show her teeth. “You don’t have to worry about me.”

“But I do.”

Ronna sighs, slides down in her seat, rocking the spinning chair back and forth with her heels. They’re alone in the office, Ronna in her chair and Ophelia perched cross-legged on the desk.

“Did I ever tell you what my mission was?”

“No,” Ophelia says, slowly.

Ronna closes her eyes and tips her head back. Her auburn hair is messy underneath her baseball cap, her day-old braids starting to loosen.

“It was…” she pauses, sucks in a breath through her teeth. “It was to bring you back from that ‘precipice’, like you like to call it. I just… I got here too late. You’ve been a demon since before I met you, Ophelia.”

It knocks the air out of her. They’d wanted her back. They’d wanted her back. They were too late.

“I— I was scared of you, when you first started working here.” Ophelia closes her eyes too, remembering the distance she’d kept between the to of them. “I thought you were dangerous. I didn’t know why.”

Ronna laughs, breathy and unusual. “My name is Ouriel.”

 _Ouriel. Ouriel._ Something in Ophelia responds to the name; hums, freezes, relaxes, jumps. Then she burst out laughing, clutching at her gut. “Of course,” she says, “of course you’re the angel who can command demons. No wonder I was terrified of you. No wonder I didn’t want to be around you.”

Ronna huffs, and Ophelia can hear the spinning chair’s wheels against the floor before she opens her eyes. Ronna is lazily pushing herself away from and towards the desk. “I have no idea if I can bring a demon back. I have no idea if it’s possible. But, Ophelia, you’re my best friend. I want to try. What do you want?”

Ophelia thinks of the all-consuming dread that had gripped her at the idea of becoming a demon, at the fact that she was one. She thinks of Ronna, her best friend, the way being separated from her feels so wrong on so many levels. What does she want?

“I want to keep doing this show,” she says. “I want to make jokes about having Lucifer on speed dial that hit a little to close to home and pretend that they don’t. I want to eat sweet popcorn when we go to the movies and I want to be your best friend. I want… things to stay like they are.”

“Okay,” Ronna says, and she smiles that familiar too-sharp smile, nudging Ophelia’s knee with her palm. “Let’s do that.”

 

* * *

  
  
And they do.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! 
> 
> I have to give a quick shoutout to Buzzfeed Unsolved (and pieces of the fandom!) for inspiring this work. I'm sure the influences are easily noticed by anyone who watches the show. 
> 
> I also have to shout out to Fate (who will read this even though it's not about the superkids, she's just too good to me) and to Callum (who I told the whole plot to like five hours ago and who probably won't read this for seven months).


End file.
